Sir Henry versus the Giant Hound
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: Henry Baskerville was afraid of giant hounds, well, to be more precise, he was really afraid of just about any dog, even the tiny Llasa Apso that looked like a corded mop with a flagging tail, was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. It was all rather embarrassing but his therapist reassured him he had a legitimate reason for his fear at least.


**A/N: The idea and inspiration for this tale goes entirely to ****I'm Nova****, a star of creative ideas who constantly shines new light on unexplored connections in canon. She presented the basis for this story; I just fluffed in the details. I hope you can enjoy a bit of humorous horror.**

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It was a dark and stormy night… (don't all spooky stories start this way?). Sir Henry Baskerville was picking his way cautiously through the glistening damp grasses of the moor. His shoes were soaked by the moisture and their squeak with each sloshing-step grated annoyingly against the backdrop of the eerie stillness. The dark jagged shadows of the granite tor frowned disapprovingly at this disturber of the peace. Sir Henry involuntarily hunkered and bent his head down in apology of such a sacrilege. There was a sinister, dark foreboding in the air - that ill-omened calm just before the thunderstorm hits.

Sir Henry quickened his pace. Since Sherlock Holmes and his personal assistant, John Watson, had sussed out the terrifying mystery behind the giant hound and the hallucinogenic gas in the hollow, he'd been a bit braver in his night-time activities. His therapist felt he'd made significant progress. It was she who'd suggested that he face his fears of the moor. "Look them in the eye, stare them down, show them you are no longer afraid," she'd counselled. "Once they see you're no longer scared, they'll disappear."

At the time, her words, spoken in professional confident tones, had made sense. Now Henry cursed his decision to shortcut home across the moor. He was fairly certain his therapist had not actually been out here at night, alone, while a chilling breeze crept curiously across the wasteland and whistled in the air signalling an incoming squall. "There is no hound, there is no hound, it was only the effects of the drug," he repeated over to himself. But the tendrils of fear relentlessly snaked after him and his throat tightened against nightmare-laden memories. A choking dread seeped into every pore of his body, and the familiar horror of the giant hound of Baskerville twisted round his heart, squeezing, making it hard for him to breathe.

"There is no hound. There is no hound. It was all a childhood nightmare." Sir Henry chanted his personal rosary and wrapped his arms around his body, breaking into a hurried trot as he crossed the path that led down into the forbidden hollow. Suddenly, a mournful howl pierced the silent shadows. The hair on the nape of Henry's neck stood erect. Sharp white powerful teeth. Glowing red eyes. Gigantic paws. He waved his arms to ward off the unwanted memories. The leaves rustled in the trees above him, a shifting rustle against the howling wind.

Sir Henry did not stop to admire the rustling leaves or the silver rays that sliced through the foliage from the full moon, illuminating a fractured landscape of dancing shadows. The low moaning and creaking of the ancient oaks only added to his escalating anxiety. A sharp crack gave him momentary palpitations until he realised it was from his own shoe crushing the branch underfoot.

As if in response to his increasing uneasiness, the wind whipped up, grabbing at his coat and shouting a threatening warning that the storm had arrived. Sir Henry didn't care what his therapist told him about facing his worst fears. He didn't care that she felt he should make a stand against the monsters in his head that lingered menacingly in the wilds of the moor. Howling hound-dogs! All he wanted now was to get the bloody hell out of this place and back to the refuge of his home. Forget what his therapist thought. She wasn't the one out here being suffocated by the hideous horror crouching in the dark, ready to pounce.

Suddenly, a low growl froze Sir Henry in his haste. A gust of wind tore past him and ripped at the branches above, sending a few dead ones snapping and crashing to the ground. He shook his head. _Imagination_. It was just his vivid imagination tormenting him again. He turned. It was then that he saw it. His blood curdled in his veins and his throat refused to utter the scream that overwhelmed him.

Human eyes, steel grey, human eyes, staring with intensity strong enough to slice through to his innermost core – his deepest most primal fear. Sir Henry couldn't move. Two furry ears twitched forward and a snout with flaring nostrils sniffed, taking in every detail of the human statue before him. Another growl rumbled through its broad chest, escaping through bared white fangs. This was no figment of his imagination. This was no childhood-unprocessed memory. This was not some hallucination induced by a toxic gas. It was a wolf. The largest, blackest wolf that Sir Henry had every seen. He shook worse than the leaves above his head thrashing in the storm. He could smell the death that permeated every hair on this giant.

The enormous beast locked eyes with Sir Henry. As much as he wanted, he found himself rooted to the damp earth. The wolf's stare held him captive as effectively as any lock and chain. A thousand questions whirled through his terror-riddled brain. _What was it? What did it want? Why hadn't the wolf killed him already? _The animal took a few tentative steps forward, sniffing, still holding the figure before him in his gaze.

"Sir Henry of Baskerville?" it breathed.

Sir Henry's mouth gaped; he managed the smallest of a nod.

"At last," the wolf's eyes softened and his snarl relaxed. "It is time we meet. I've been searching for you."

Sir Henry merely stared, wide-eyed. He'd maxed out on his fear quotient. Raw, primal horror permeated every cell. He could not be more terrified.

"Don't be so afraid," the wolf studied his prisoner closely.

"This can't be true. You're just a dream, a phantasm of my PTSD," the quivering man squeaked between chattering teeth.

The wolf gave a low chuckle, satisfied and smug. "I am most certainly not a figment of your imagination."

"You… you…but, you're - you can't be real!"

"And yet I am, I assure you, as much flesh and blood as yourself."

Sir Henry squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The wolf was still there. Clearly amused by his antics too.

"You see, I'm still here."

"But this is impossible. I'll wake up any moment. It's all a bad dream."

The wolf shook his head.

"No, no, no!" Sir Henry shouted. His voice ratcheted through the thin line of trees and was lost on the open moor. "This can't be true," he shook his head vehemently, pinched his forearm, and blinked his eyes furiously.

The beastly apparition remained, calming standing in front of him with those peculiar human steel-grey eyes. He noticed that the wolf, oddly, did not have a tail.

"Ah, I see your powers of observation are finally returning," the wolf answered in response to Sir Henry's unspoken query. "You are correct, I do not have a tail. But then, did you really expect that I would?"

Sir Henry's mind rushed back to his elementary days and the hours spent reading fairy tales. Tales of flying dragons, giant ogres, fairy princesses, and transforming human-animals. Sir Henry was not staring at a giant hound. It, the giant, was a werewolf – a genuine, straight-out-of-folklore, wolf-man.

"Impossible," Sir Henry gasped.

"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains…" the creature bared his sharp incisors with a wolfish grin.

"But, werewolves are mythical creatures, animals from ancient legends. They don't exist."

"And yet here I am. You have seen me, smelled me, and certainly heard me, why not touch me? Convince yourself that I'm quite genuine."

Sir Henry reached out a trembling hand and very gingerly fingered the coarse bristles on the wolf's neck. Certainly, they felt real.

"I really hope you don't have to taste me to believe now," the animal continued, wrinkling his nose as it scented Sir Henry's deodorant. "Really, '_ocean breeze_'? Your choice in body odours is detestable!"

"Hey, I didn't go about complaining about your choice of body odour - _decaying corpse_ – I assume, by the putridity of your aroma," Sir Henry let out indignantly.

"Humans," the wolf sniffed disdainfully.

"What do you want, anyway?" The sudden turn in conversation released Sir Henry from his paralysing fear.

"I want you, of course," the creature growled with impatience.

"Me?"

"Yes, you, idiot!"

"I'm not an idiot."

"Fine. Whatever." The great furry beast waved a dismissive paw. "We'll come back to the idiot part later. For now, let's concentrate on the fact that you're one of us."

"I am not a werewolf! I can't be a werewolf. I'm terrified of dogs, in particular large dogs, for God's sake! How could I be a werewolf?"

The wolf rolled his eyes. "Must I explain everything? Of course you're a werewolf. Think about it. The unibrow, the unusually curved fingernails, the funny ears, the particular way you walk…"

"I am not a werewolf," Sir Henry's mind stuck in an endless loop of disbelief.

"And what about the cuts and scrapes that you never let anyone help you with because you're afraid they'll find out about the hairs you always find in your wounds?"

"No, I am not a werewolf."

"And what about those mornings? Mornings when you can't remember what happened the night before, waking up exhausted, practically confined to bed in nervous prostration?"

Sir Henry blinked. He remembered all too well. "But, but, I can't be a werewolf. It's a full moon now and I'm clearly not as hairy as you."

"And you think werewolves only transform on a full-moon?" the beast inquired with a disdainful thrust of his paw. "Please! Werewolves can transform anytime they choose. It's about time you learn how to control your permutations instead of waiting until your emotions overwhelm you."

Sir Henry slowly shook his head to the negative, "no, this is not possible."

"Methinks he doth protest too much," quoted the black wolf with a twinkle in his grey eyes. He knew when the argument had been won. "We expect to see you at the next pack meeting," he raised his eyebrows knowingly. "UMQRA," I believe you're already familiar with the signal. At the half-moon." The werewolf gave one last appraising glance at Sir Henry, now the newest initiated member to the moorland werewolf pack.

Sir Henry stared, open-mouthed, as the giant animal loped off into the deepening shadows. It wasn't until the wolf had completely disappeared from view that he realised he was sopping wet from the rain that had been falling. He shook himself, sending water droplets in all directions, leaving his unruly hair sprouting from all angles. He tore himself away from peering into the engulfing darkness and turned and walked home.

~221B~

Sir Henry's therapist called it a remarkable breakthrough. "See, you faced your deepest, most primal fear out there on the moor's edge and you conquered it," she praised him. Sir Henry would only give a wan smile when folks asked him what happened out there on the moor to enable him to get over his childhood nightmares and pathological adult fears of giant hounds. He was never again afraid to wander the desolate landscape day or night. A newfound confidence permeated his existence. "He's like a new person," the villagers remarked in awe as they watched him strut confidently down the streets. "He's found his wolf's stride," an old-timer remarked wryly.

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_A/N: I know werewolves are often considered to only reveal themselves on a full moon but in my online research there are apparently many conditions under which they can transform, one of the more interesting is by drinking rainwater out of the footprint of a werewolf. It is generally agreed upon that metamorphosis can be controlled by the particular subject. And, if you, being of a sound and scientific mind are inclined to doubt the validity of my story, consider the journal articles published recently touting how the lunar phases of the moon can influence the 'inner wolf' in humans._


End file.
